


could be better

by rosielibrary



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Prostitute AU, can we call this the roxanne au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-06 22:19:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16841533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosielibrary/pseuds/rosielibrary
Summary: part one by sinful-shipping on tumblr: https://sinful-shipping.tumblr.com/post/134061166350/could-be-worsei asked them if i could write a part two to their oneshot, and they said yes !so here's a slightly happier ending. yay(word of warning: this fic is from 2015 and unedited!)





	could be better

His number was given to you from a young man talking to his friends at the bar you worked at, and while you were scrubbing the counter you memorized the ten digits with ease. The group of greasy guys snickered to themselves as the man recounted the prostitute boy’s face, an almost wistful look on his own countenance before it fell as his phone beeped, a young woman’s face on the turned-up screen. His wife, of course. The men disappear in different directions to their homes and you get ready to go to yours, but you feel almost fearful for the boy of the man’s fantasy— you don’t even know his name, but you’re curious. Curious probably isn’t the right word.

Worried.

You call the number before you turn the bar’s lights off and it rings three times before someone answers with a raspy, tired voice. He’s young, maybe a little less than you in years, but not by much.

“Hello?”

“Oh, um, hey.” Great greeting there. Save it, quick. “I, uh, I got your number from—“

“Oh.” He immediately sounds deflated. “It’s $30 for oral, $50 for sex, $15 an hour for anything else.”

You pause; how to tell this poor guy you don’t want anything sexual and you just wanted to give him a bed for the night was much more difficult to articulate than you thought.

“Can you, uh, can you meet me outside the bar on the corner of 5th? It’s called Crompton’s, it’s where I work.” Your question is met with a grunt and he says he’d be there in ten minutes.

You pull your coat on and do a last sweep of the tables and toss a few abandoned paper coasters before you lock the door, the cold slapping you in the face as you fumble with the keys.

“Hey, were you the one who called?”

You almost drop the noisy ring of keys when the voice starts up and you flip around in surprise, meeting dark eyes wide in shock like your own. He’s cute in a tired way, bags under his eyes making up for the lack of baggage on his back, his thin hoodie against the cold obviously doing more harm than good. He’s staring at you almost incredulously, hands shoved in his pockets.

“Are you—? I’m sorry, he didn’t tell me your name,” you tell him apologetically.

“Stan, I’m— I’m Stan.” He steps forward and holds out a hand and you shake it, telling him your name. His hand is freezing cold against your palm and it makes both you and him shiver.

“So, uh… Where’d you wanna go to do this?” He’s obviously unfamiliar with this new job of his and the tips of his ears go pink. Stan doesn’t look at you as you stuff your keys into your pocket, but you take the silence to figure out your thoughts.

“I don’t want anything like that,” you tell him, and he raises a brow in surprise. “The guy who gave me your number is a regular here, and I wanted you safe from his seedy friends.”

Stan’s obviously taken aback by your decision by the shock on his face, and you smile at him reassuringly. He tries to return it but he looks like he’s about to fall apart from the cold, so you dig in your coat pocket and hand him your gloves.

“Here. You need them more than I do.” You gently press the gloves into his open palm and he pulls them on, immediately thankful for the warmth.

“You’re not connin’ me at my own game, are you?” Stan looks at you with a serious expression and you shake your head immediately. You promise him you’re not scamming him and he seems to relax, though the surprise on his face is still evident when you take his hand and tug him in the direction of your apartment. The walk there is filled with small talk he’s not used to giving: you find out he’s just a few months younger than you and he’s backpacked his way around from New Jersey. He lost his car so he was taking rides (and giving them, apparently) whenever and wherever he could, ending up here after hitching a ride from a guy smuggling pugs across the border. You ask why pugs, he says why not? You start laughing and he beams at you, a more natural smile that makes your cheeks go red, and not from the cold.

You scale the stairs to your apartment and scuff your shoes against the doormat, letting him in first. The warmth hits you like a wave and you see Stan shudder against it, his entire body seeming to droop with his sigh of content.

“Sit down, if you want,” you call from the kitchen, grabbing two mugs. “Coffee?”

Stan nods appreciatively and does a double-take at the mugs in your hands. One’s bright yellow with giraffe spots, the other blue, the image of a boat on the side tackling painted waves.

“Can I— Can I have the boat one?”

You turn to look at him and he looks sheepish at the question, but you say yes, flipping the coffee machine’s switch on. Once you’ve made the two cups you sit down next to him, handing him his mug and grabbing the remote with your other hand.

“Do you want to watch something?”

You switch on an old movie and you watch in silence, your focus wandering every so often to Stan. He drinks his coffee like a little kid, sipping it in small mouthfuls with both hands cupped around the ceramic of the mug. You catch his eye sometimes and both of you look away bashfully, a small smile on his lips that makes you mirror him.

An hour and a half into the film and you feel a soft thud on your shoulder. Stan’s cheek rests on your upper arm and he sighs in his sleep, mouth slightly open, coffee mug empty. He was obviously far too tired for caffeine to even have an effect on him. You save the mug before it falls from his fingers and put it on the table at your side, scooting a little to make yourself more comfortable, but as soon as you move an arm slings around your middle and holds you down.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you murmur to him, turning the volume down on the TV. His grip tightens on your hip and you realize he’s probably not been able to just relax somewhere for a night if he’s been on the streets for as long as he looks. You wiggle your arm out from between your and his legs and bring him closer, sinking into the couch cushions with him almost lying across you, and your hand rubs a trail up and down his spine. Stan prods your jaw with the top of his head and you crane your neck a little, allowing him to rest better against your side, his messy brown hair tickling the base of your throat.

You’re suddenly compelled to make him live with you forever so you can take care of him. He looked so sad when you first saw him and now he seems so content that you don’t want to ruin it for him. You settle instead for kissing the top of his head lightly.

“Can you do that again?”

He wasn’t asleep. You stiffen, startled from his sudden question, but oblige and press your lips to his hair again, and Stan almost melts against your shoulder. He sits up to face you, suddenly very red, as you were sure you were, too.

“I-I didn’t mean to make it weird, I’m sorry, I’ve just— They’re not really… Nice to me, I guess.”

Stan looks down at his hands and you feel your heart sink in your chest for him. Stan fumbles over his next few words but you gently place a hand on his shoulder, bringing him into your chest and hugging him. He wraps his arms around you and buries his forehead into the crook of your neck and you hear a sniffle, but don’t comment on it. Your hands find the sides of his face and you bring him up to your level, kissing both cheeks gently, a slight taste of salt on your lips. Stan is quiet for a moment, the air between you thick.

“Can I… Can I kiss you?”

The question leaves your mouth before you even think to stop it but Stan nods almost too quickly, your foreheads brushing together from the movement. Leaning in, your hand goes to the back of his neck and you kiss him softly, feeling his grip tighten on your knee, and when you pull away he follows you, eyes half-lidded. You giggle and he blushes a dark red, jolting back and smiling guiltily.

“Sorry. You’re pretty good,” he mumbles, gaze dropping to your mouth. “They don’t— they don’t kiss me like that, y’know? I mean, they usually don’t at all, so. Huh.”

You lean forward and kiss his cheek before standing up. “C’mon, it’s late.”

Stan stays put, staring at you with his head cocked to the side in question. “Whaddya mean?”

“It’s past midnight, Stan,” you press on, but he shakes his head.

“I can tell the time, I just… Are you telling me to leave?”

“Oh, no! No, no, no, I’m not, I’m just—“ Shit. Quick, save the situation by doing something attractive and don’t trip over your shoes.

You stick your hand somewhat near his, wiggling the fingers for emphasis. He glances down to it and then at you, blinking once, twice.

“Stay here with me. I don’t want to do anything like that, just… You need sleep, and you need it in a bed. And I don’t want you to leave.”

Your babble seems to help and his hand takes yours, pulling him to his feet. Stan’s smile is somewhat nervous but you grin at him, leading him to your room and letting him get comfy while you changed into more comfortable clothes (no, you weren’t gonna get naked, as what Stan yelled at you teasingly from the other side of the bathroom door). In the middle of asking him a question, you open the door to find him fast asleep, jeans and all, under the covers of your bed. Your expression softens and you turn off the bathroom light, climbing in at his side.

He misses his phone ringing off the hook on the sofa outside.


End file.
